Impression, p.4
IMPRESSION, page 4
Gardener turned his attention back to Morrison. His hands were crossed over his chest, and his wrists were tightly tied together with a piece of cord. The head, neck, chest, and other parts of the body were swollen. His feet were also tied with the same type of cord. The man was grossly overweight, with a double chin, large eyes, a bulbous nose, and thick lips. He had silver hair cut in a short back and sides, as Beryl Potts had described. To say he’d been propped and left in the doorway wasn’t true. He’d been positioned. Someone had taken time, had wanted to make the right impression. Though what that was, he had no idea.
“What do you think, Sean?”
“Hard to say. Part of me thinks gangland execution, but that’s only because of how he’s been tied up.”
“Gangland executions are usually more brutal. They’d either have cut his throat or been equally as savage somewhere else on his torso.”
“And probably left him alive so he could sing soprano for the rest of his life.”
“But there’s nothing, is there?” said Gardener. “His body’s swollen, but that could be from any number of things.”
Gardener produced a pair of gloves from his pocket before reaching down for the jacket next to Morrison. As he picked it up, he noticed splashes of blood covering the fabric. He passed it to Reilly and asked him to hold it up for him.
The SIO studied the jacket, struggling to imagine the pattern of blood spatter he’d seen back at the house where Nicola Stapleton had been found. It was impossible to tell if they matched. He decided he was clutching at straws, perhaps hoping to find something where there wasn’t anything.
“Jacket’s a bit heavy, boss. You check out the pockets?”
Another car pulled up at the shops. Gardener noticed a crowd of onlookers had gathered. The scene was obviously better than breakfast TV. Fitz stepped out of the vehicle. That’s all they needed, Gardener thought. He and his partner would receive a torrent of abuse, as if it was their fault they now had a double murder on their patch in the same night.
He turned his attention back to the clothing. The jacket had two outside pockets. In one, he found an empty purse. The other contained a knife.
Gardener held it up to the butcher. “You recognize it?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s not one of mine.”
Gardener wasn’t pleased. It was the second blade he’d seen tonight. Nicola Stapleton had been pinned to the floor by a bayonet. Barry Morrison had a knife in his pocket. She had blood spatter in her kitchen, he had it on his jacket. What did it all mean?
One inside pocket had a driver’s licence, which confirmed it was Barry Morrison. The other pocket had a small rent book. Gardener opened it and sighed deeply.
“What is it?”
He showed the book to his partner. Their problems really were mounting. The name on the rent book informed them it belonged to Nicola Stapleton.
Gardener took the jacket from Reilly and held it out for him. “Take a look. What do you see?”
Reilly peered closely for some time.
“Blood spatter. Do you think it’s hers?”
“After finding the rent book, there’s no reason to think it isn’t.”
“Do you think he killed her?”
“Maybe, but who killed him?”
“There is another option. He didn’t kill her, but he was forced to watch.”
“That sounds possible. Whoever killed Nicola Stapleton, and for whatever reason, then brings our friend back home and kills him.”
“Where? In his flat?” said Reilly. “There’s no evidence to suggest he was killed here.”
“You’re right, but if he was killed in the flat, why go to the effort of dragging the body all the way down the stairs and leaving him here, outside?”
“Make it public. Maybe there’s someone else living close by, and the killer wants to send a message. Maybe he or she wants someone to see this, as an example.”
“Could be. How did they kill him?”
Reilly shrugged. “His body’s swollen, but it doesn’t look like he’s taken a beating.”
“There’s no blood to suggest he was stabbed, either.”
“Heart attack?” suggested Reilly.
“Could be, but I don’t think so.”
Gardener examined the body again, noticing Morrison hadn’t been shot or visibly wounded in any way. So where did that leave them?
“Maybe he’s been poisoned,” offered his sergeant.
“That’s the best option at the moment. It’s certainly nothing visible,” said Gardener.
“I don’t think he’ll be the last, either,” replied Reilly. “These two will be the first. Mark my words.”
“I don’t doubt you.”
Fitz approached the body and glanced down at it.
“You two just don’t give in, do you?”
“Come on, Fitz,” said Reilly. “You’re up now, no point going back to bed.”
Fitz smiled at the sarcasm. “What do we know?”
“Nothing much,” replied Gardener. He took the elderly pathologist through what the butcher had told him. Fitz leaned into the doorway and dropped to his knees for a closer inspection.
Gardener shouted to Colin Sharp. “I want a tent around the front of this shop as soon as possible.” Sharp nodded and reached for his phone.
“A tent?” questioned Wrigglesworth. “You mean I can’t open today?”
“I doubt you’ll be open for the rest of the week, Mr Wrigglesworth.”
The relative silence that followed was suddenly broken by a loud whining noise, as if from a lead guitar. The group glanced upwards. Gardener spotted an open window, and determined the music was playing from inside Morrison’s flat.
He sighed loudly. He didn’t know the song, but did recognize something important about it. Although it wasn’t the Millhaven song he’d heard playing at Nicola Stapleton’s house, it was definitely the same singer.
Chapter Nine
John Wrigglesworth unlocked the front door to the flat and let both detectives in. Gardener glanced around.
“How many rooms does it have?”
“Four,” replied Wrigglesworth. “Living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom.”
“Does he live here alone?”
“As far as I know.”
The living room was a standard size, around thirteen-feet square. It was clean and smelled fresh – but that could have been from the open window. A brown cord carpet covered the floor. Gardener saw a pair of two-seater settees, a TV, and a Sky system. One wall housed a fireplace with a mirror above it. Other than that, there was nothing to suggest it was someone’s home: no personal items, photos, or ornaments.
The song had stopped playing as they approached the front door, but had now started again. Gardener found the CD player and extracted the CD.
“Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds,” he said to Reilly. “Who the hell are they?”
“Someone who doesn’t rely on Simon Cowell for a living.”
The SIO held up the CD: Murder Ballads. “You don’t recognize it, then?”
“No,” said Reilly. “But the title fits. He’s doing a fucking good job of killing the songs.”
Gardener glanced in the bedroom: one bed, one wardrobe, one chest of drawers, and one chest at the end of the bed. The bathroom contained only the basics. Judging by what was in the fridge, the kitchen was an alien landscape to Barry Morrison. Gardener glanced inside the waste bin. It wasn’t full, but the takeaway cartons were mounting.
Reilly opened up one of the cupboards, which contained half a loaf of bread and two tins of beans. Morrison was no chef. Judging by what he’d seen on the doorstep, the man was dangerously unhealthy. The reason why was here in front of them. He preferred eating out to cooking at home.
“When did you last see him, Mr Wrigglesworth?”
“Yesterday.”
“How did he seem?”
“He were never any different. Never had a lot to say. Always seemed as if he wanted to be somewhere else.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“He were always distracted. He’d stand and talk, but not for long, and I always had the impression he had more than the conversation on his mind. Regularly checked his watch. Always looking over your shoulder… and his.”
“Did he ever mention something bothering him?” Reilly asked.
“No. And I didn’t know him well enough to ask.”
“Why did you see him yesterday?”
“He came to pay the rent.”
“What kind of a tenant was he?” asked Reilly.
“Never had cause for complaint.”
“Any problems with the rent?”
“None whatsoever,” replied Wrigglesworth. “Regular as clockwork, cash on the nail, every Friday.”
“Always cash?” questioned Gardener.
“Always.”
Gardener glanced around again. Although there wasn’t much, the gear was quality. The TV was 4K – very big: too big for the room. Morrison had a Sky Q box, the CD player a Bose Wave. The twin settees were leather Chesterfields. He walked back into the bedroom and sat on the bed. He jumped up again quickly, watching the quilt move for some time afterwards: a waterbed.
Judging by what he’d seen so far, Gardener decided Barry Morrison was a confusing man who didn’t appear to have much on the surface. Judging by the clothes he was found in, he gave the correct impression of someone running a taxi office and car pitch, especially with the current economy. Digging a little deeper, though, it became obvious he had expensive tastes for life. All of his gear had to be paid for. Eating out and takeaway meals also did not come cheaply. The problem was, Gardener realized, even being both a car salesman and a taxi driver wouldn’t earn him that much.
“Bit upmarket for a cab driver.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” said Reilly. “But he was more than that. According to what people are saying, he and his brother were partners in a car dealership.”
“I think we’re going to find there’s a lot more to Barry Morrison than meets the eye.”
Gardener turned to the butcher. “I noticed some garages across the road. Did Morrison have one of those for his car?”
“No, they all belong to the surrounding flats. He generally parked his car round the back, next to mine.”
“But you haven’t seen it this morning?”
“No, but I never do see it in the mornings. He works the night shift, so he doesn’t normally turn up till around nine, nine-thirty.”
“Who collects all the mail for the flat? Does it come into your shop?”
“Yes.”
“Whose name is on the letters and bills?”
“His, mostly. Some are addressed to me.”
“Who’s responsible for the bills?”
“A bit of a split,” said Wrigglesworth. “The rates are covered as a premises. There’s a meter for electric and gas, and he pays me for them.”
“Cash?”
The butcher nodded.
Gardener wandered into the bedroom and opened up the drawers in the chest. Most contained small items of clothing: underwear, socks, and shirts. The bottom drawer had letters and bills. Gardener skimmed through them. He saw receipts for items Morrison had bought, paid for in cash.
“Did he have any friends calling on a regular basis?” Gardener asked.
Wrigglesworth gave him a blank expression. “I couldn’t really tell you. I didn’t know him that well. I worked days, he worked nights. We didn’t cross paths that much. When we did, he never said much, but he were always pleasant. I never had any problems with the rent, or otherwise.”
“You never saw him with a woman? Small, blonde, mid-to-late twenties?” Reilly asked.
The butcher shook his head. “No. Like I said, I didn’t know him that well.”
“How did you two meet?” asked Gardener.
“One of my staff used to live above the shop. Eventually he got married and moved on. I ran an advert in the local paper for a tenant. Morrison turned up. He seemed okay to me, and when I found out he had a car pitch and a taxi business with his brother, I thought he sounded professional enough.”
“You ever meet his brother?”
“Aye. Bought a couple of cars from him over the years.”
“What’s he like?” Reilly asked.
“The complete opposite to him downstairs. Slim, works out at the gym by the look of him. Came in the shop regular and bought meat and the like. No rubbish, mind, always the best stuff.”
Gardener placed the bills and the letters back in the drawer. Before the day was out the flat would be stripped by SOCO and everything would be given a closer inspection at the station. Something about Barry Morrison did not add up. In fact, something about the whole sordid business didn’t add up, thought Gardener.
“Okay, Mr Wrigglesworth, that’s all for now. Would you wait outside the flat for a few minutes? I need to talk to my sergeant.”
The butcher did as he was asked.
“What do you think?”
Reilly shook his head. “He wasn’t killed here.”
“No. Too clean.”
Gardener glanced around again. “It doesn’t make sense. He owns the house that Nicola Stapleton lives in. Yet he chooses to live here in a small flat above a shop. Why?”
“He’s hiding something.”
“He’s her pimp?”
“Maybe, with more like her on the books.”
“So maybe it’s not a client who killed her. Maybe he did.”
“Maybe he was a client, and it all went wrong, so he finished her off.”
“I wonder why?” asked Gardener. “Perhaps she gave him something.”
“Even so, if he killed her, who killed him?”
“And how?”
“Look at all this stuff. None of it’s cheap. You don’t get stuff like this unless you have plenty of money, or you load up the plastic.”
“I don’t think it’s on plastic, Sean. There’s a stack of receipts in that drawer, and the ones I saw were marked as cash sales. The butcher says he paid for everything in cash, so how is this man making his money?”
“Drugs?” suggested Reilly.
“Could answer for the syringe under Nicola Stapleton. So where does the photograph of the five-year-old girl fit in?”
“Trafficking?”
Gardener sighed. “Well, whatever he’s doing, it pays well. We both know that to earn that kind of money, it’s probably illegal, which covers one if not all of the things we’ve mentioned.”
“Have they both crossed somebody? The prostitute can’t have killed him, because the timing’s wrong. Which means he could have killed her, and then someone got to him.”
“Or someone else killed them both. Judging by the blood on his jacket downstairs, I’d lay odds that he was made to watch, and then taken somewhere else and killed before being brought back here.”
“The footage from the CCTV camera at the end of the shops might tell us something.”
“And where’s his car?” Gardener asked. “Has someone used Morrison’s car to do all of this?”
“The brother?”
“Possible,” replied Gardener. “Couldn’t be anyone else better placed.”
“Which could mean a problem with the business.”
Gardener nodded. “Unless the brother’s straight, and he’s found out what this one’s into.”
Reilly shook his head. “I’m not so sure about that. Blood ties are usually pretty strong.”
“The butcher reckoned the brother was the complete opposite. Could be that he’s straight-laced and doesn’t approve. Maybe it was something that threatened to bring the business down around their ears.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” replied Reilly.
A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. Colin Sharp popped his head around the door.
“Sir?”
Gardener glanced at him.
“Barry Morrison’s Ford Focus has suddenly appeared.”
“Where and when?”
“Not sure when, the engine’s cold. But it’s back where it should be – his car lot.”
Chapter Ten
Reilly brought the pool car to a halt. Gardener jumped out. Despite it still being early morning, an August sun had risen, and the temperature was already threatening to hit new records.
Gardener had no idea how to fully judge the success of a car pitch, but it was well-presented, with around sixty cars all washed and polished and ready for inspection. Most of the vehicles were family saloons, priced budget to mid-range. In a compound at the back sat another twenty or so cars.
An office constructed of glass and steel stood at one end. There were signs advertising ‘We buy cars for cash’, as well as a variety of warranty and finance deals available to attract the punters. He noticed two salesmen watching him, probably wondering whether or not he was there to buy. They obviously weren’t confident, because neither left the office.
To his right, tucked away in the corner, was a portacabin. Removing his warrant card, Gardener set off in that direction. Reilly followed.
Inside was pretty much like any other office: small, stuffy, and untidy. He saw a desk with a computer and a printer. Strewn across the top were a number of files. Near the window was a filing cabinet. On top of that was the most important thing to any cabby: tea-making facilities. A couple of chairs were lined against the wall, next to another cabinet. A radio on top was tuned to a local station playing classic gold hits.
“Help you two gentlemen?” asked the man sitting in front of the computer.
“DI Gardener and DS Reilly. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Barry Morrison.”
“Have you found him?”
“And you are?”
“Prosser, Sid Prosser.”
Prosser was overweight, with a face the colour of a ripe cherry and a big purple nose, which suggested he enjoyed a drink or two. Or more. He had a small amount of hair at the sides of his head. He wore jeans and a check lumberjack shirt.
“What do you do here, Mr Prosser?”
